Romanticism

"We are... disappointed romantics, scraping the hearts from our sleeves." -Passenger

     This past Monday I had my first counseling appointment of the semester. We talked about a lot during this session, but I got very annoyed that my counselor seemed fixated on discussing my romantic life. Normally I would talk about how I have nothing to share. I told him how I am sort of seeing someone, but it's very casual. I wanted to move on. Talk about something else. He didn't.
     Part of me didn't want to talk about it because I felt like we could be talking about something more important and pressing. The more I think about it, he might have been onto something. Because while one part of me said, "Let's not talk about it because it's not a big deal." the other part of me was screaming, "Let's not talk about it because it's not a big deal even though I want it to be."
     I had this realization when driving to school today and I was listening to Passenger's song, Fairytales & Firesides. I have always loved and related to this song. However he came to the line where he says, "We are coffee house cynics too righteous, too rigid to believe. Disappointed romantics, scraping the hearts from our sleeves." And I had to rewind it and listen again. I've heard that line hundreds of times. But this morning it particularly spoke to me.

     Today's culture praises people who can keep their emotions in check. It praises people who can go out with others, hookup, and not "catch feelings". People walk around saying "I don't want anything serious" as if wanting something serious is wrong. But what is serious? And what is the opposite of serious?
     I told myself I didn't want anything serious. I told myself I just want to have fun. But that's not me. I have watched too many Disney movies, read too much Victor Hugo, and recited too many Shakespearean sonnets. I ache for beautiful love. To love and be loved in return. "Just having fun" isn't fun for me. It gives me anxiety. It makes me fidgety for something better. It makes me want to kick that "fun" person to the side, or hold on too tight. But hanging on loosely by a thread, reeling him in every once in a while, that's not fun for me. It may be fun for others, but I must accept that that's not me.
     I don't want anything serious. I'm not looking to commit for long term. I'm not trying to get married in the next  years. I don't know where I'll be living in the next few years.
     But I want something serious. I want to have meaningful conversations. I want to have a love that makes me happy. I want someone to go to sleep thinking about me. I want to have someone I can call when I don't want to be alone. Someone who is more than a friend. Someone who gives me more than benefits.
     I don't know if I am in the wrong time or place for this. Maybe I'm too young or I'm dating people who are to young to think like this. But I must accept who I am and what I want, or I'll end up stuck in what I don't want.

A Blank Page

     Many say what an author fears the most is a blank page. The daunting task of filling it with words clutches their creativity, holding their talent hostage.
     I have the opposite problem. I have so many ideas, so many threads that need to be sewn into something beautiful. So one might wonder where the problem could possibly be.
     The fear of ruining what was once perfect. A blank page, free of blemishes, is so much more than what it may appear to be. It is untarnished hope. Hope that someone could fill its page with beautiful prose, poetry, plans, or any other wonderful things we can do with this gift of written language.
     What if someone better than me was meant to use that page? I'm not worthy. What if I write a terrible story, or I have a story, but lack the prose skills? Was the page not better off left blank?
     But I woke up one Saturday and went to staples. I checked my bank account to ensure I had the $4.86 necessary to buy the notebook I had singled out from the hundred others. I took it home, and it sat in my desk for months. When this night came, and I had the urge to write, I reached for the forest green notebook with large, beautiful, college-ruled pages. I stared at the page, wanting to write, but not wanting to tarnish its pure beauty with anything unworthy.
     So I wrote about the page itself. If it finds this writing vulgar, at least it will know I acted with the best of intentions. And while I mourn the loss of a perfect piece of paper, I do not regret that I poured a piece of myself onto a page, rather than sit in silence, thinking those thoughts which have plagued my mind these last few months.
     And as I come to the bottom of the page, I must thank it for being my sanctuary for the last 10 minutes or so. Between your lines I found solace and peace, though fleeting, never unappreciated.

The aforementioned page. 

Notice Me!!

When I was a competitive dancer, we had to go to dance conventions a s a studio. These conventions could be over the course of a week or weekend. There was one that we always went to that I hated. I couldn't ever put my finger on it, but I never enjoyed it. I tended to stand at the back, produce minimum effort, and count the minutes until the end of the day's classes. 

However, one year, I was determined to make the most of it. I tried as hard as I could, and I felt that I was truly out-performing most of the dancers there. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't get the attention of the teachers. Finally, I was fed up with being overlooked. I was tired of feeling like a potato by girls who had to do half the work because they were tall and skinny. I was tired of working my butt off for zero recognition. I couldn't take it. 

So when the teacher told us to improv to a song, I went straight to the front of the room. She still didn't look at me. I danced bigger, taking up as much room as possible. She wouldn't look at me!!

the class was held in a ballroom of a hotel. There was a stage built up on risers for the teacher to dance on so that everyone could see. 

I had a crazy idea. But I was desperate. 

I made my way closer to the stage. I stood right in front of her. I slammed my entire upper body onto the stage. the metal risers gave a resounding screech. I flew backwards landing on the floor. Did a backwards somersault to stand up. Looked her right in the eyes, and continued dancing. 

I won a scholarship to the next convention. 

Tonight I submitted my Fulbright application. I hardly ever get scholarships. I have come to accept that I don't have the highest academic record though it's pretty high. I am not the most involved, though I am pretty involved. 

But there is something different about applying for this grant. I have never felt so qualified for something. More than that, I would like to meet anyone as passionate about this specific opportunity as me. Maybe that's not fair, but it's definitely how it feels. 

I wish that the Fulbright committee was sitting on a stage that I could throw my body onto. That I would do anything that would set me apart, help them understand what lengths I would go to for this. 

But that's not how life works. You can't throw your body in front of someone to prove your passion. Only you can ever fully comprehend the extent of your passions. So all I do can do is sit on my couch, with my fingers crossed until January, hoping for the best. 

Waiting for Fulbright results is perhaps equally as terrible as waiting
for the Passenger concert to start on a freezing cold Chicago day.

Sappiness Alert

I have kept my heart locked away
For so long it has grown colder.
So I thought I could withstand you
But doors burned down from your fire.

Now you walk out leaving me
Cleaning up the ashes alone.
I am intact despite my heart
Which crumbles as I've never known.

Still I marvel at your talents,
Such as the triumph on your part,
How it was you could ignite flames
That reached my hidden lonely heart

Since yours is so frigid and cold
I'm left shivering from your hold.
Unable to hide, seen by all
Just how pathetic was my fall.